


The Private Life of Anderson

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=126279617#t126279617"> this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme - when Anderson is home, alone, he pretends to be Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Private Life of Anderson

Anderson came home after a long shift to find an empty house. He texted his wife.

 _Quarter-end reporting, remember?_ came the reply a moment later. _Back late. Dinner in fridge xxx_

Depending on how guilty he felt on any particular day, Anderson harboured precisely two non-erotic fantasies about his wife. The first was that she, ignorant of his infidelities, was carrying on a torrid affair with one of her colleagues and was similarly wracked with remorse. This fantasy tended to end with mutual confessions, laughter, and forgiveness all round.

The second was that she knew precisely what he'd done and was choosing to torture him with flagrant displays of saintliness.

He checked the fridge. Dinner appeared to be home-made lasagne with ... yes, tiramisu for dessert. His favourite.

 _This is exactly like the Spanish Inquisition,_ he thought disconsolately.

...

Anderson ate his dinner while watching ‘University Challenge’. The cat - a large grey puddle of fluff – was fast asleep at the other end of the sofa, and his prized collection of tropical fish swam in placid patterns in their tank beside the TV.

“Wilkie Collins,” he muttered to himself. “Stayman Convention, 1871. Oh, I’m good.” 

On-screen, Jeremy Paxman was berating the hapless contestants for their ignorance. The condescension in his voice prompted Anderson’s thoughts to drift so far in another direction that he entirely missed Bristol’s bonus round.

“Right,” he said, apropos of nothing whatsoever, and stood up suddenly. The cat, who’d been curled up asleep at the other end of the sofa, gave him a suspicious look. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Why can’t you be more like them?” He gestured at the tank of fish who continued to swim in blissful, un-judgemental ignorance.

He turned his back on the cat and marched defiantly upstairs.

Ten minutes later Anderson struck a pose in front of the bathroom mirror and examined himself critically. His hair was roughly tousled – a definite improvement over the curling tongs. Then a gray silk shirt he’d been given for Christmas and never worn outside the house (far too fancy for work), the trousers from his smartest suit, and Margaret’s blue dressing gown. And, to complete the look, a deerstalker hat he’d smuggled home the previous week and hidden at the back of his wardrobe.

He cleared his throat. “This soap,” he said experimentally, “is dull.”

No, too nasal. He pulled a face, rolled his neck and tried again.

“That plant is tedious.”

Better, but not quite there. He stared at his toothbrush and gave a dramatic sigh.

“ _Boring._ Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a decent murder.”

That was it. He spun on his heels and flounced downstairs.

“You have the face of a particularly stupid horse and the IQ of its saddle,” Anderson announced loudly. “Yes, Paxman, I’m talking to you. Oh god, nobody will ever understand the pain of being a genius surrounded by idiots who have the collective intelligence of a large fern and none of the usefulness – at least ferns provide my massive brain with oxygen. And when I say ‘massive brain’, please remember that I’m compensating for the size of my penis.”

Hands in pockets, he swished the dressing gown about a bit before leaning over the sofa.

“Hello Lestrade!” he said brightly.

The cat blinked at him.

“Do you mind if I just piss all over your crime scene? Shake my hair, touch evidence with my bare hands, that sort of thing?”

The cat mewed.

“Yes, that’s right. You’ll just let me do whatever I want, and why’s that? Because you’re a cat.”

Tiring of that conversation, he picked up a small, squishy cushion. “Come along, John.” Anderson let the cushion dangle from one hand as he paced the room, pointing randomly at things as he kept up a running commentary.

“And from the faint trace of kryptonite on that ugly vase, we can deduce that the victim’s sister-in-law is in fact Lex Luthor. What’s that John?”

He held up the cushion to one ear and listened intently. 

“I’m amazing? And the cleverest man ever in the whole wide world? And you’ll think I’m saying something brilliant no matter what bollocks I come up with? Yes, well I deduce that’s because you fancy me (despite my tiny penis and utter lack of social skills).”

Anderson held the cushion in front of his face and looked deeply into its weave. “Ok. I’ll let you suck my cock if you absolutely insist, but it’s important that you remember this: I’ll never love you as much as I love myself.” 

He rubbed the cushion against his crotch, moaning exaggeratedly and throwing his head back until the hat fell off. After a few moments, he frowned and held the cushion up again.

“I wouldn’t have a problem with you being gay, you know. I watched ‘Queer as Folk’.”

The cushion stared back reproachfully.

Anderson had a cutting remark poised on the tip of his tongue when he heard a noise behind him. He whirled round, cushion still in hand, to see his wife walk in to the lounge.

“Maggie,” he said intelligently, watching her root around in her handbag, aware that any moment she would look up and yet finding himself somehow unable to move. Now he knew how rabbits felt. “You’re home early.”

“Yes, we got lucky with the-“ She looked up and paused. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” 

“You’re wearing my dressing-gown.” Maggie glanced round the room as if she was playing a life-size game of ‘spot the difference’. Anderson was suddenly, horribly aware that the hat on the floor was only inches out of Maggie’s line of sight, and if she stepped any further forward she’d see it and then she’d _know_.

Anderson said the only thing he could think of. “I’m a transvestite. I’m dressed up as a woman. Called Sylvia.” Her gaze snapped back to him. “It’s mostly heterosexual men who do it, you know,” he added helpfully.

Maggie put her handbag down and gave him a thoughtful look. “You’re wearing trousers.”

“Lots of women wear trousers. _You’re_ wearing trousers.” Anderson walked over to the sofa and carefully put the John-cushion back in its place, taking the opportunity to kick the hat behind an armchair on the way.

Maggie looked profoundly unconvinced. Anderson had always been attracted to her sensible, sceptical nature, but right now he couldn’t help wishing she was just a bit more gullible. He could feel the shirt starting to cling under his arms as he sweated nervously. 

“And,” he said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “I’m wearing women’s knickers.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“Oh yes.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “Pink frilly ones.”

She crossed her arms and tapped her fingers in an unconscious rhythm on her elbow, not taking her eyes off his face. “Show me,” she demanded eventually.

He might have refused if it hadn’t been for the faint but unmistakeable note of excitement in her voice. Anderson straightened up, looked his wife firmly in her bright, sparkling eyes, and dropped his trousers.

Thank God she’d caught him on a Thursday.


End file.
